


i long for that feeling, to not feel at all.

by 1231pm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy-centric, Good Slytherins, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-11-13 14:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11187477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1231pm/pseuds/1231pm
Summary: He doesn’t have the motivation to fight anymore, to try and survive anymore, he can’t go on like this anymore. This feeling; this neverending fear and paranoia and anxiety that courses through his veins the worst of days and remains a dull ache on the best of days, so he might as well just empty all of that now.But for a few moments, a tiny glimmer of hope in this wasteland, he thinks of struggling. Of giving life another chance, a second chance, a fifth chance, a tenth chance, another bloody chance.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I may or may not continue on this to make it a multi-chapter fic, but for not it's labelled as complete until I know what to do with it. This is a giant vent-fic, and the suicide attempt is really intense and vivid, so please heed the warnings really seriously because this sort of thing could be really triggering? 
> 
> Also, none of the characters are really.... here? It's honestly just Draco as the others are just mentioned, and it's in Draco's perspective anyways. I hope you all enjoy.

(“I think I’d pitch myself off the astronomy tower if I thought I’d continue another two years.”)

* * *

 

He hasn’t been back here for a while. Not since sixth year and…

For a brief moment, he wonders if he’ll look in the mirror, and see Potter in the reflection behind staring like he’s nothing short of a spectacle, a circus act, once more.

One last chance for dramatic irony.

Looks like that’s not happening though, as he looks into the grimy mirror, and all he can see is himself, pale and red-rimmed eyes, something in the silver causing his chest to clench.  

(Isn’t it better that this bathroom is completely empty besides the presence of a dead girl?)

(Less chances of mucking up again.)

He hears Myrtle saying something to him, and he smiles, the expression crooked and forced on his features, something too soft for his sharp edges.

He hears her ask _what’s wrong_ ( _i’m fine_ , he answers, _so completely fine_ ), coaxes him to talk while she listens (he’s not fine, he’s not, ask him again), and _it’s like_ _old times_ (is it? he’s finishing a job), and it makes something acidic rise in his throat.

He wonders how his life would have been if things had gone differently. If Crabbe hadn’t started Fiendfyre in the Room of Requirement. If he had identified Harry that night. If Snape hadn’t been there to heal him after Harry cast Sectumspectra on him. If he hadn’t been such an arse in his kid years, if Harry had just taken his bloody hand --

If he hadn’t been a fucking Death Eater. If he hadn’t taken that stupid. fucking. mark.

It all spiralled because of that though, didn’t it?

Everything that’s happened…

All because of that grotesque mark on his arm.

(How do we forgive ourselves for all the things we did not become?)

He thinks that there’s something so poignant in the fact that he can’t measure what the important parts of his life are. Where the resolutions are, where the middle started nor where it ended. He doesn’t think much that his life had one, really; he thinks maybe his life is like this.

Pre-Death Mark.

During.

And Post-Death Mark --

(How does one measure a life?)

(By what you did or didn’t do?)

\-- And now?

He fills the tub with water, motions robotic. Waits until it fills in, just near halfway before stepping inside, his robes still weighing heavily on his frame, only bothering to go barefoot. He sharply exhales, tries to ignore and shove the initial cringe back at the feeling of the water seeping through his robes, an uncomfortable dampness rising from his ankles.

He can hear a soft buzzing in his ears. It’s almost deafening, really, but at least it overpowers the sound of Myrtle’s panicked voice, _what are you doing?_

What _is_ he doing?

A favour.

He’s always wondered if people feel terrified when they do this. But he’s anything but. Maybe it’s because he’s drank more bottles of Draught of Peace than is probably recommended, but regardless. It feels like the end of a book -- complete, resolved, finished, _over_. Like maybe this is the way things had to be. The way things had to be for them to make sense, to him, to everyone, like -- thanks for fucking nothing, it’s all been great, the beginning, middle, and it’s just time for the end.

The resolution of a story where he was never strong enough to be the main character, never daring enough to be the sidekick, but not important enough to be the villain. Just there.

A side character whose story you don’t go back to.

It’s fitting. Really.

He can’t see himself in another month, or a week’s time. Can’t see himself the next morning. Doesn’t want to.

It has to be now.

If he can believe it, the silence is getting louder, numbing and relieving. He feels more relieved than he has in ages. He’s going to do this. The emptiness has long since settled in as he sits down in the tub, his robes floating around him. He smiles at the ceiling, flicking his wand once so that the water stops -- when had it reached the brim? --  before looking down at his left arm, pulling over the sleeve to stare holes into the Dark Mark.

The mark is red, just the inactive memory of what had been, and it still sticks out against his pale, near translucent skin. His arm is bony, thin, breakable. He could probably find his veins if he looks hard at his wrist. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to back out of this.

It’s this thought that makes him pull his wand out of his robes, staring blankly at it, fiddling with it in his hands before looking back down at the faded ugly mark on his left arm.

He points the wand at the mark, thinks of every curse he knows, and for a moment he debates why not just saying those two special words, the ones that will make this all over faster, the ones that will make this instant.

But he knows he doesn’t deserve instant. He deserves to suffer, he knows, for all the death and tortures he’s seen. Anything else would be too easy. And this choice isn’t supposed to be easy.

When he closes his eyes at night, he can still hear loud crying and begging and screaming. Of all the people tortured and killed in his house, on the grand dining table he used to have sunday breakfasts at. Of faces blurring together, of all of those people who suffered, who suffered without any hopes of mercy, who suffered without any hopes of mercy in his own bloody house --

And he knows. They didn’t get mercy.

So why should he?

It’s this thought that brings him over the edge, muttering, _Diffindo_ , as he drags the wand across his arm. 

The cut isn’t very deep, horizontal and ugly right over the snake’s head, but it still aches, the ache causing him to breathe deeply. He can hear Myrtle screaming now, but all he can think about is how easy the words pour off his tongue now. As if the first cut was the one that broke the dam.

He doesn’t know how many times he says it; hell, he must say it at least four, seven, eight times.

He just keeps muttering the words, watching in almost sick satisfaction at the way blood is pooling at the gashes in his arm, and he barely registers the wetness on his face until the tears start to obscure his vision, and he cries out when one goes deeper at his lack of focus. Everything feels like static, and a part of him realises that Myrtle is gone.

Good.

He’s alone.

He needs to be, really, for all of this to have worked.

He looks down at the mangled skin that once held the Dark Mark and now is just flayed flesh and blood -- so _much_ of it, and breathes harshly, the only sound in the bathroom, it’s not over, not yet, not even as he can feel everything, feel the blood leaking out of the wounds, stinging painfully as the water in the bath sloshes against it every now and then. His hold on his wand is tight, knuckles near completely white as he wills his focus, wills the tears out of his eyes, as he points his wand at his wrist before exhaling, _Diffindo_ , as he moves to drag the wand down. He screams, concentration breaking as he nearly drops the wand in the water from the pain.

His eyes are shut -- when did they close? -- before opening them as oxygen fills its way into his lungs, trying to keep focus once more, shakily another, _Diffindo_ , as he tries to finish what he’s started: a jagged vertical cut that’s pouring crimson out of his scarlet marked skin. He feels so cold, the water cold and his skin cold, but his blood feels like lava coming out of him, and everything feels heightened, and he doesn’t know what to do.

(To continue or not to continue?)

(That is a question.)

(Maybe not _the_ question, though.)

It burns and burns and _burns_ and a part of him knows that it isn’t enough, this is nothing compared to what others have went through, and that part of him wins over the one that aches and aches and _aches_.

He shakily takes hold of his wand in his left hand, this time, looks at the pale, unblemished skin of his right arm and, pauses.

For a moment, he wonders if he should have done this in the lake to bury his secrets at the bottom, shackled down there, versus the way his reasons lie carefully at the bottom of his trunk at the edge of his bed. Wonders if he should have tried to tinge the entire lake red, to leave _his_ mark; he was _here_ , and _here_ , and _here_ \--

(He _was_ here.)

But then he’s happy he didn’t.

(Wouldn’t want to traumatize those poor mermaids.)

Another moment, he thinks of everyone; of Crabbe, of Greg, of Theo, of Blaise, of Pansy, of his Father, of his Mother, of _Potter_. Of this godforsaken year. He wishes that they had been enough. That everyone had been enough, but they weren’t, and this is the consequence he guesses.

He doesn’t have the motivation to fight anymore, to try and survive anymore, he can’t go on like this anymore. This feeling; this neverending fear and paranoia and anxiety that courses through his veins the worst of days and remains a dull ache on the best of days, so he might as well just empty all of that now.

But for a few moments, a tiny glimmer of hope in this wasteland, he thinks of struggling. Of giving life another chance, a second chance, a fifth chance, a tenth chance, another _bloody_ chance.

He can’t give into that. He can’t think about all the things he wants because all he can think about are the things he can’t have and the things he doesn’t deserve, and he doesn’t deserve them, doesn’t deserve his parents, doesn’t deserve his friends, doesn’t deserve anything happy or anyone good, and it’s not like any of this is going to matter.

Life does go on; and they’ll get over this. They will.

Seasons will pass, and they’ll be okay, they’ll get over this because it’s not like anyone would really miss the Malfoy heir that much.

It feels like everything is a maze of paradoxes, and it’s all crumbling anyways, and he just doesn’t have any chance at escaping.

He shuts his eyes, thinks of sinking ships and thinks of a way out from the ache and thinks of how easy it would be to slip under the surface and let the water have its way with him. Instead, he opens his eyes once more as his hand trembles before casting one last, _Diffindo_ , keeping concentration long enough to drag the wand down his right arm, stifling his loud sobs and his pained screams that echo loudly over the silence and the static as a long, horizontal mark mirrors the one on his left.

His entire body hurts and aches and it feels like Fiendfyre only worse because there’s no saviour to pull him out of this one.

He summons the bottle of sleeping potion he freshly brewed for this very occasion, a personal one, concentrated and perfect. He doesn’t want to bare anything anymore, doesn't want to be awake to face the consequences of his actions. It'll only make it more real, and he already has too many problems with distinguishing what is and isn't real these days; and he really doesn't want to add his own death to that list. He uncorks it unceremoniously and pauses, stares into the vial, hands shaking and trembling while bloody fingers try to keep their grip on the slippery glass.

He feels like he’s stuck between not being able to breathe and being able to breathe too much, like not enough oxygen can get to his lungs, like he’s stuck in limbo, and this is his punishment, as it finally settles in among the sick that this is _It_. This is the ultimatum, this is standing at a cliff’s edge, waiting for the strength to jump. He lets his grip slip on his wand, trying to sit up as the water drags him under, both water and blood having made his hold slippery, the wood clattering as it falls behind the rim of the tub.

He’s tired.

Of fighting, of breathing, of _wanting_ \--

He doesn’t want anyone finding him, protecting him, _saving_ him --

He’s just… tired.

Draco’s kind of amazed, really, how quiet everything is, as he can feel the life pouring out of him. There’s something so honest, so visceral, so fucking _quaint_ , about all of this.

About waiting for the life to drain out of him.

Everything is so quiet but so loud, and he keeps hearing something but he doesn’t know what it is, and he wishes it would just stop until he realises it’s him, and he’s making those pathetic whimpering noises; hurt and pained and agonising gasps and cries and sobs and his entire body is wracked with pain, and he’s so fucking tired and exhausted and he wants this all to be over already.

He’s never realised how long this takes, and maybe he should have gone with something faster, something less painful, but anything less painful would have been a coward’s way out, and he’s trying so hard not to be that.

He doesn’t understand why people claim this sort of thing is cowardly or weak or selfish -- there’s something completely selfless about what he’s doing. He’s doing everyone a favour, a civil service; nobody will have to deal with the Malfoy heir any longer. He almost hopes the Prophet makes a dramatic headline, something brash and loud, something biting and honest.

 _Draco Malfoy, Former Death Eater, Found Dead in Hogwarts_ \--

 _Son of Death Eater Found in Bathroom, Dead_ \--

 _Malfoy Heir is Dead_ \--

Dead --

Dead --

 _Dead_ \--

(You have to wonder. How many times can you see a word, think a word, speak a word, hear a word, until it loses its meaning?)

He wants this to be over; doesn’t want to take his chances any longer as he downs the vial’s contents, dropping the now empty glass in the water. The glass floats in the tub, bobbing gently. The potion works faster than he expected, his muscles already relaxing as the edges of his vision soften just enough to stay awake for his last moments but enough to notice the difference without the potion.

He’s struck by how alone he is, next, at how completely and utterly alone he is in this grimy bathroom, and he wonders who will find him.

He wonders if it’ll be someone he knows or someone he doesn’t, if it’ll be someone he cares for or someone who doesn’t care for him. Wonders if any of the younger years will find him or if the eighth years will come down from their shit party and stumble across him.

He wonders if some part of him, the sadistic part, the masochistic -- because he has to be, right? -- part of him hopes that it might be Potter who finds him. Potter who has a penchant for saving people and following him. Who will notice he’s missing and investigate. Who finds him in a bath of red, another tally, another person that he tried saving, that he failed to save, and maybe that’s not fair --

Maybe that’s not fair to blame _Harry_ for this. It isn’t his fault, it isn’t. Draco wonders in his pain-high mind if Harry will blame himself for this. Probably. Which, really, is stupid because it isn’t his fault. He will blame himself, and he shouldn’t; because Harry has always tried to be a hero, even if all he ever wanted to be is Harry, he has always carried himself with this stupid, stupid self-flagellating moral code and has tried to save people when he never had to, when he never should have had to. It is not his fault, he’s done everything he possibly can, more than what Draco deserves, truly, but nothing will ever be good enough.

He thinks they both knew that.

He wonders and wonders and wonders until finally the feeling of numbness, of pins and needles, of that feeling after your limb falls asleep, of that feeling of pure static settles in amongst the panic and overtakes his senses. Overtakes the scent of copper and the feeling of water sloshing against him and his billowing robes, and he slowly, slowly lets himself give into the darkness that’s taking over him like a blanket.

He wonders if he hears something, someone, at the edge of his consciousness, but lets himself close his eyes anyways and breathes.

He’s tired.

 _Just_ , tired.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First, he sees the wand on the floor.
> 
> (Draco would never be that careless. He’s fiercely protective of his wand, especially after finally getting it back.)
> 
> Then, he sees the tufts of blonde sticking out above the tub.
> 
> (Draco doesn’t wash with his back to the door. He’s paranoid like that, always has been. He’s terrified of someone walking up behind him.)
> 
> Finally, he notices the colour of the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So! This chapter actually evolved a couple of times, so the narrative changed a bit in my mind, which is why it's out late since I was trying to refigure the story. But I hope you enjoy this chapter! 
> 
> This one doesn't have much of Draco, since he's unconscious during this chapter. As for triggering material, this one doesn't have any vivid details, but the cutting is mentioned.

Blaise weaves his way through the bunches of eighth years, finally spotting the face he was looking for.

“Potter,” he hisses, tugging on the Gryffindor’s shoulder, causing the other to jump slightly in surprise.

“Zabini, what’s going on?” Potter’s brows furrow in confusion, and Blaise has to stop himself from rolling his eyes in frustration.

“Have you seen Draco?” he ignores the other’s question in favour of his own, his voice a controlled drawl but worry flickers in his eyes, ruining the illusion of calm.

“No,” Potter starts, slowly, looking around before frowning, “Didn’t he say he was going to take a nap?”

“Would I be asking you if you’ve seen him if he was actually taking that nap?” Blaise snaps, sighing at the blank confusion on the other’s face.

“He’s not in the room,” Blaise starts again, impatiently.

Finally, thank _Merlin_ , Potter finally reacts, confusion turning into concern. “But where would he go?”

“I…” Blaise exhales, “I don’t know.”

That gets Potter moving, “C’mon, let’s find him,” as they begin the dance of avoiding moving bodies, weaving through the patterns of partying eighth years before finally it appears they’ve garnered the attention of others as Pansy materializes next to him, speaking to get their attention.

“And where are you two going?” She points out, gesturing, “The party’s barely started, and you _know_ it’s Game Night.”

“And you know how Granger gets about Game Nights,” Theo suddenly speaks, tone quiet but curious, both Blaise and Potter finally turning when it appears they’re not going to be able to leave without an explanation.

“Draco’s not in the room,” Blaise says shortly, “we’re gonna find him.”

“I’m going with you.” Pansy says firmly, eyes narrowed in the way that Blaise knows he’s not going to be able to convince her otherwise. The girl loves Draco as fiercely as Blaise does, childhood friendships having withstood the many years.

Blaise loves her, too, but right now? He sighs in frustration, before glancing at Theo; the brunette putting his hands up.

“I’ll cover for you guys,” he says, and Blaise looks to the ceiling in relief. Thank Circe for Nott.

“Thank you,” Blaise mouths, before tugging Pansy and nodding in confirmation to Potter to continue moving. Potter remaining silent during the conversation is a blessing, really, because Blaise, for as calm as of a facade he puts up, is too annoyed to put up with anything else; too worried for Draco’s well being than he’d like to admit. And when he chances a glance at Pansy, he knows she feels the same. Draco has always had a knack for getting under your skin, and making room for himself in your life, and they will always be protective of him -- especially now, with how this year has been going.

Potter’s expression is grim, when Blaise is able to sneak a look at him, before he’s grabbing a piece of parchment out. He whispers something at it that Blaise is too distracted to catch, so unlike himself that Pansy sends a worried glance to him, something guilty making its way into his chest, not wanting to worry her too.

In an effort to lighten the situation, Blaise raises an eyebrow, voice smooth as he questions, “That what you used to follow Draco in sixth year?”

It makes Pansy laugh softly, and even the corners of Potter’s lips lift slightly in embarrassment before he pauses, recognition seeming to flood the Gryffindor’s features at whatever he’s seeing on what now is obviously a map in his hands.

“Shit,” Potter curses, breaking into a brisk walk, and Blaise has to wonder if this is how Weasley and Granger feel, chasing after the Saviour without any explanation of what’s going on in his head.

He wonders, too, how alike Potter and Draco are -- and if Blaise and Pansy willingly following after both of them says more about them or the other two.

“What’s going on?” Pansy asks, walking fast to keep up.

Blaise follows, silently before he realises they’re going to the girl’s communal bathrooms. He turns to look at Potter who is already walking inside, carefully.

The ghost that resides in this bathroom is gone, Moaning Myrtle, and the place is unsettlingly quiet.

Pansy’s hands are curled into fists, and he wants to try to calm her down, but what he sees next makes him freeze completely.

First, he sees the wand on the floor.

(Draco would never be that careless. He’s fiercely protective of his wand, especially after finally getting it back.)

Then, he sees the tufts of blonde sticking out above the tub.

(Draco doesn’t wash with his back to the door. He’s paranoid like that, always has been. He’s terrified of someone walking up behind him.)

Finally, he notices the colour of the water.

(No, no, _no_ \--)

( _Not Draco, please, Merlin, not him_.)

He’s over in minutes, recovering immediately, not paying attention to the way Potter stands frozen in shock and Pansy bursts into tears.

(How did they not see this coming?)

He barely registers he’s saying anything until the words, “ _No --_ ” and “ _It’s okay --_ ” reverberate off the walls. Blaise tries to lift Draco into a sitting position, the blonde’s unconscious body floating in the filled tub, the bloody water seeping through his sleeves, as he nearly falls backwards at the sight of the Draco’s arms that are coated in scarlet. He doesn’t realise, either, Potter and Pansy are coming over either, until Pansy’s sobbing echoes in his ears and Potter is pulling Draco’s body close, and Blaise lifts a shaky hand to Draco’s neck, pressing his fingers firmly against the skin to find a pulse, something, _anything_.

When he feels it.

Weak, but there. Blood is still gushing out of the wounds, the wounds must have been recent, and -- with the positioning of where the lacerations are? self-inflicted, no less -- and Blaise feels bile rising through his throat before he snaps out of it.

Draco wasn’t dead. Not yet.

But if they didn’t do anything…

No.

He couldn’t think like that.

“Pansy --” Blaise starts, but the girl is crying too loudly to hear it, and he has to go over and grab her arm to get her attention, “Pansy, tell Madame Pomfrey; you have to go to her,” and when that doesn’t seem to get her moving fast enough, although her eyes dart to him, tears streaming steadily; he shakes his head, speaking louder, “Pansy, go now!”

Finally, she gets off her knees and darts out, quickly grabbing Draco’s wand in her haste, and Blase mentally praises her for that because he knows he wouldn’t have remembered to grab it, not when he’s too busy thinking about the bleeding body of his best friend. His blood is pounding loudly in his ears, but not loud enough for him to miss hearing Potter mumble things to Draco, things that he can’t catch, and things he isn’t straining to hear, knows that those are things that are only meant for Draco’s ears, anyways.

"We need to put pressure on the wounds and get him out of the water, Potter,” Blaise grips a hand on Draco’s bleeding left arm, in an attempt to stop the crimson from pouring out, and there’s _so much_ of it, the water turning darker and darker red, and _haven’t they see enough blood?_

Potter seems to snap out of it, finally, staggering as he lifts Draco’s upper body out of the tub, reaching into pick him up carefully, trying not to aggravate the wounds that are still bleeding, and Blaise hopes they aren’t too late, hopes they aren’t too late to save one of the very few people that he cares for.

Draco’s arms are still oozing blood, the red seeping through the cracks of his fingers as Blaise tries to grip Draco’s wrists to stop the bleeding while Potter rests his body on the floor, Draco’s blonde hair pooling in a messy halo as the Gryffindor puts his head on his lap, reaching for the blonde’s pale right arm, smearing his hands in blood.

“Oh Draco, what have you _done_?” Blaise mutters, his heart clenching for the boy that he vowed to protect at the beginning of this year. He told himself he’d protect him, but some job he’s done, truly. He hates this, hates the red that contrasts too much with Draco’s pale skin, coating it so profusely that he’ll never be able to see the colour again without thinking of this moment. In vivid detail.

He knows that this will cause all of the Slytherin eighth years to spiral -- Greg had barely recovered from Crabbe’s death, any progress at all was thanks to Draco who had been there to talk Greg down from nightmares even if the blonde had suffered from them too, and he knows this will cause Greg to fall apart more. Theodore will freak, as well, because Theo has a habit of taking the blame for things, and he’ll blame himself for this, too. All of them had made some wordless promise to protect each other from everyone else, and that’s all fallen to pieces, hasn’t it? When they weren’t able to protect Draco from the one person they never expected they’d have to protect him from. Himself.

And wasn’t that the kicker? They had just seen the blonde a few hours ago. He had been happy, hadn’t he? Smiling and teasing and bright and happy, and he hates that all of that had been a lie; the blonde had always been rubbish at lying to them and yet… _and yet_.

All of them will have to question _why didn’t they do more to stop this? Why couldn’t they see the signs? Why didn’t they see their best friend slipping before their very eyes? Why didn’t he say anything? Why didn’t he tell us he was suffering? Why couldn’t they see past the facade?_

Madame Pomfrey and Pansy are here, and oddly enough so are Headmistress McGonagall and Myrtle (so _that’s_ where the ghost had went), and they’re wheeling a stretcher towards them. Myrtle poofs away with a sad, grief-stricken look on her face, and it makes something uncomfortable swirl at the bottom of Blaise’s stomach. He doesn’t know much of how Draco had vented to Myrtle, but it’s plenty clear that they had been close enough. Draco always did have a tendency for attracting all sorts of people.

Potter carries Draco carefully and places him down on the stretcher gently, as Blaise stands, his knees buckling before he pushes himself over, his hands still pressing down on Draco’s blood-coated arm.

The cuts are so long and deep, he knows, and all of them are rushing into the Infirmary. Everything is happening all at once, and Blaise doesn’t know what to focus on. All of them are in a panic and finally, they place him down on one of the medical beds, and Madame Pomfrey immediately turns to them to shoo them away, her eyes wet with tears and Blaise wonders how many _sui--_ deaths has she seen? Headmistress’s face is tight and grim, but Blaise can see the shred of disbelief and sadness in her eyes.

Pansy doesn’t want to leave him though, she makes that clear at the way that refuses to leave his bedside, and he has to hug her close to stop her from reaching for Draco, even if a part of him wants to reach for their best friend too.

Potter’s shaking, too, and they lock eyes for a few moments, knowing all three of them are far too high on adrenaline to try to pretend everything’s okay.

Blaise reaches an arm out to clasp Potter on the shoulder, nodding once before they walk out, one odd bunch they must make, drenched in blood and bath water.

Headmistress steps out for a few moments, her face patient but stress lining the edges of her features. He knows they should explain to her what happened, but Blaise can’t trust himself to speak. Before he can say anything, though, Potter takes matters into his own hands and shakes his head, “No -- I… I’ll stay and explain to Headmistress. You guys go back to the dorms.”

And for a few moments, it’s clear that both Slytherins want to protest, it has to be, because Potter just shakes his head again before walking over. Blaise wants to follow, too, but he decides against it; he knows that this all has gotten to be too much. Pansy must think so, as well, because she turns her teary eyed face to him before her eyes dart in the opposite direction.

And like that, the silence is broken as the two distraught best friends walk away. The halls feel too quiet and their footsteps feel too loud, and Blaise doesn’t know how they’re gonna recover from this.

He doesn’t think they ever will.

* * *

He staggers to the eighth year floor with Pansy in tow, it feels like hours have passed, and it looks like the party is still in full swing as they step inside the eighth year common room. Blaise wants to walk Pansy to her room, but he also knows the girl needs time to breathe, to take everything in, and pushing her is the last thing he wants to do right now. He does know, however, he needs to tell the others soon enough.

It’s this thought that makes him hunt for Theo, even in his drenched robes and chaotic state. The brunette is easy enough to find, the boy sitting with Neville and Weasley. They appear to be sober enough to approach.

There’s something so surreal about the fact that none of them know of what has just transpired.

Theo looks up from drinking whatever it is he has in that cup, the corners of his lips turning up in greeting before he freezes at the sight of him. It makes Blaise unnerved, the way Theo looks him over, no doubt in both confusion and scrutiny.

Weasley and Neville look over, too, incredulously. All three of them stand to approach him, and he’s surprised at the amount of worry is on their features. Huh.

The other room occupants are conveniently distracted by the loud booming music, to which Blaise is grateful for. He just shakes his head before he sneaks into his room, knowing that they’ll follow. Once he gets inside, he immediately is locking the door behind them once all four of them are inside. They’re still looking at Blaise in shock; and, for a moment, Blaise wonders how unsightly he really looks, but that feeling passes far too quickly when he remembers a flash of what he’d just witnessed when he looks at Draco’s bed.

Potter, Pansy and Blaise will have the unfortunate job of telling the everyone the full story later, he knows, they’ll have to tell the other eighth years, the ones who will care, that Draco tried to -- that Draco nearly died tonight.

It won’t be pretty.

Theodore’s face is full of concern when he looks at Blaise, and Weasley and Neville oddly share the same expression. Merlin, he must look a mess.

“What happened, Blaise?” Theo asks, finally, his tone soft but the words still echo in the silent room.

Blaise inches towards Draco’s trunk, the bed perfectly made, and all he can see is Draco bleeding in that tub, and he barely registers the hand on his shoulder.

(All he can see is the perfectly made bed and imagines Draco, stepping out from the bed after he knows no one will come back until a couple of hours. After he thinks no one will come check up on him. Imagines Draco folding his sheets and adjusting his pillows, fixing the comforter and flattening everything with a resigned neatness one last time.)

“Where’d Harry go?” Ron questions, although not interrogatively, surprisingly. He knows he should answer it, but his head isn’t screwed on right, and Blaise can’t snap out of it.

He finally stops in front of the trunk at the edge of Draco’s bed and collapses to his knees, Neville making an alarmed sound.

“Blaise --” Theodore starts, eyes flickering to the empty bed to Blaise, and Theo isn’t an idiot. If Blaise looks up, he knows that he’ll see the cogs working in Theo’s brain as he comes to a conclusion of what happened.

Finally, Theo asks the question that crumbles all of Blaise’s sanity.

“Where’s Draco?”

The breath leaves Blaise instantly, leaving him winded and the question is a punch to his gut. He doesn’t know how to speak, all of a sudden.

(How do you tell someone that their best friend just tried to kill himself?)

(That their best friend sat in a tub and tried to die, alone and lonely?)

(That their best friend had went through that entire day, knowing that every word he was saying had a goodbye hanging in the balance?)

(That their best friend had wanted every word he was saying to be the last words, the last impression he’d left behind?)

The words can’t come to him, and all he does is lift a shaky hand to Draco’s trunk and steadily rests his head against it.

The others wait patiently, and he knows Theo isn’t going to leave him not when Blaise is in such a state and especially not when Theo has no answers.

After what feels like hours and yet is only minutes, Blaise replies, hollowly, “He’s in the infirmary.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath but he doesn’t know whose it is.

“But why?” is Weasley’s surprising question, and Blaise only shifts a bit in acknowledgement of it.

Before he can answer anything else, just like that: Potter is walking in, and he feels (yet again) grateful for the Chosen One.

“Harry --” Neville starts but Potter must do something that cuts the train of thought off.

“Can we talk about this tomorrow?” Potter asks, softly, and his expression must seem completely defeated as everyone makes an agreeable sound before they all leave.

Everything is just too much.

* * *

When Blaise goes to sleep, later that night, he dreams of a picnic among the eighth years. They’re on Hogwarts grounds, but they’re sitting on blankets in the grass.

Draco is a steady presence between Blaise and Pansy, laughing at something Greg is saying. When Blaise jokes in return at Greg, he hears Millicent quip up as Daphne lightly nudges him.

From the corner of his eye, he can see Potter smiling at Draco, and the other Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws are all having their own conversations, and they’re all enjoying the nice spring day, and for once everything feels okay.

The air in his lungs goes colder, all of a sudden, and Draco’s laughter is gone, and his warmth is only a missed presence because he hears Pansy’s gasp and Blaise turns around.

Draco’s standing behind them, his grey eyes blank of emotion. His white button up sleeves are rolled up, and he can see the faded Dark Mark.

“Draco --” he hears Greg call out, before everything goes silent, a static ringing in his ears.

When Draco opens his mouth, he’s whispering something that Blaise can’t hear over the noise in his head, and he stands up to try to reach for Draco. But when he does, Draco doesn’t even look at him, and his heart is pulsing, and Blaise watches in horror as sharp and deep cuts start slowly appearing on Draco’s arms, grotesque and cruel.

Draco doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even pay the cuts any heed, just continues whispering quietly.

Finally, when Draco stops, he’s looking up at Blaise and it makes something in his nerves go cold.

(Draco’s eyes have always been cutting. They say eyes are the windows to the soul, but Blaise thinks his eyes are more so a door. A door that when you look into them, you might not leave out the same way.)

“Why didn’t you save me?” Draco asks, quiet but solid. There is no emotion in his tone, either, no inquisition, no curiosity, not even vengefulness.

“Draco --” Blaise chokes out, and it feels like the air in his lungs have become needles.

"You killed me.”

The words are a knife, and Blaise walks right into them.

“ _You killed me, you killed me, you all killed me, you all_ **_killed_ ** _me!_ ”

Draco finally screams, the only emotion showing through _this Draco_ , and Blaise feels like he’s been stabbed over and over.

But instead, when he looks down, he sees longer cuts on Draco’s arms and all of a sudden, the grassy grounds they’re standing in are being coated in the not stopping stream of Draco’s blood, and Blaise is struck by how much he wants to puke.

Draco slowly sinks to the ground, collapsing to his knees and Blaise drops to catch him, his body shaking in fear.

“Why didn’t you **save** me?” Draco repeats again, eyes softer and resigned and sad.

“I’m so sorry,” Blaise shakes his head, tears welling up.

Draco opens his mouth to say something more but Blaise can’t hear what it is because he shoots awake, heart pounding.

Damn it all.

* * *

The next morning is a Saturday morning, Blaise realises grimly as he gets out of bed. Neville and Potter are still sleeping, and he looks at Draco’s bed routinely before remembering he’s missing. He looks down at his clock, it’s way too early to go to breakfast, so he figures he’ll try his luck with checking in on Draco.

He takes a quick shower, last night he had took one and scrubbed himself a tad viciously, trying to scrub the memory of how Draco’s blood felt on him. This shower serves more to calm him down, letting the water pour on him to avoid anything else.

When it feels like his skin is going to prune, only then does he step out, the weight on his shoulders returning as he walks out of the dorm and into the common room where he sees Pansy reading a book.

She doesn’t look up as he sits down next to her, waits until she speaks.

“He’s not awake yet,” she answers the question he didn’t ask but wanted to. She looks up, eyes shining slightly. Her features are more dewy, her hair in a severely tight bun. He doesn’t point them out.

“He’s not awake yet, and Madame Pomfrey said she’s running diagnostics on him, and _he lost so much blood_ , _Blaise_ \--” she continues, her voice cracking slightly as she cuts off.

“He’ll be okay,” Blaise says, but the way she bites her lip anxiously makes him know that it doesn’t reassure her. She leans into him just a tad, and he wraps an arm around her, lets her recover into his shoulder.

“He’ll be okay,” He repeats, this time his voice trying for lighter, teasing, “he can’t get away from us that easily.” He hears her laugh wetly, although the sound just breaks his heart more.

“He’ll be okay,” Blaise whispers, again, and he wishes he believed it.

* * *

They eat breakfast in silence, later.

Theo is staring holes into both Blaise and Pansy, and if Blaise was a lesser man, he might have actually been intimidated. Millicent and Daphne are trying to coax Pansy to bring her into their conversation, but Pansy is steadily drinking her pumpkin juice and Draught of Peace concoction, offering thin smiles at the others when they talk at her. Greg is eating, and anyone would think it was normal if not for the fact he’s looking up uncertainly every now and then, as if Draco will randomly appear. Blaise hates that he’ll have to crush him after all of this.

Theo sees Blaise looking at Greg, and Theo tilts his head wordlessly, but the point gets across fine, _you have to tell us all what happened eventually._ Blaise nods once, _later_. Theo finally relaxes and goes back to eating.

From the corner of Blaise’s eyes, he can see Potter is looking over at their table instinctively, and when Blaise catches him staring at where Draco would sit, he has the decency to look offput.

(Blaise isn’t the only one who is utterly hurt by what Draco’s done. Before Draco did what he did, Potter and he were becoming friends, becoming more than what they were.)

(Blaise isn’t the only one who is utterly hurt by what Draco’s done.)

(It doesn’t make it hurt any less, though.)

It’s not the first time Draco has skipped breakfast, or a meal in general. But usually he gives them all a warning ahead of time.

Blaise looks down at his food, suddenly not hungry.

(Yeah. A warning would have been nice.)

* * *

When they finish eating, albeit slowly, Potter and Potter’s friends stop them all at the door.

Granger has her eyes narrowed, scrutinising, at them, but Theo stares at her right back. Potter clears his throat, and just like that: everyone looks at him. When Blaise raises his eyebrow at him, the tips of Potter’s ears go pink in embarrassment.

Ever the mediator, Blaise wants to snort, but it’s not nearly appropriate for this situation.

“Let’s just meet at the Room of Requirement,” he says, an effort to calm the situation, but Greg tenses immediately.

Blaise puts a gentle hand on the other’s shoulder, trying to snap him out of it. It doesn’t really work, and there’s a very troubled look on Pansy’s face. Draco’s usually able to get through to Greg, but he’s not here, now is he?

Potter must notice the situation shift before he immediately explains, “I, uh, Draco and I have fixed it up. It’s working fine again.”

The unsaid is still heard: it’s not on fire, and Greg’s shoulders sag a bit in acquiescence, and Blaise knows what Greg is thinking. If Draco had fixed it, then it was fixed.

Safe.

And with that, they all walk. They must make some group because he hears the other years whisper as they walk past.

Neville makes steady conversation with Theo, and Weasley talks about Quidditch with Blaise and Daphne, and Granger is in steady conversation with Millie. Pansy has her hand on Greg’s arm and is talking to him in hushed whispers, and Blaise thinks she’s preparing him for what’s to come.

Potter is the only one still silent, and he has the parchment out, staring at it wordlessly. Weasley looks like he wants to get him to talk, but Potter is too lost in his head that it’s a moot effort.

When they finally arrive at the door to the Room of Requirement, Blaise notices Greg looking pale and nods at him once, unspoken words going, _are you sure?_

Greg is shaking a bit, but only slightly before nodding in reply, _yes_.

Blaise just looks away as they all step inside.

In the room is what looks like the eighth year common room except no blue and yellow colours. Instead, only Slytherin green and Gryffindor red, and the red makes him panic for a few moments, remembering the shade of crimson that ran down Draco’s arms.

He shuts his eyes before opening them as he sits down on one of the couches.

“So are you guys to tell us what’s going on?” Daphne asks, voice sharp as Pansy takes a seat next to him. It feels too much like they’re sitting on the stands of a court case, The People versus Zabini, Parkinson and Potter.

“Yes, where did you guys go last night?” Granger crosses her arms, staring Potter down.

Blaise grimaces, more, when Greg asks, “where’s Draco? Shouldn’t we have him here?”

It makes Blaise sigh and scrubs a hand along his face in stress, taking a tiny peek at Theo who only stays quiet but has his eyes narrowed with the distinct message:

 _Tell them_.

He doesn’t sneak a glance at Pansy, knowing ultimately too well that she’s trying to find a way to say what they saw.

The words feel like lead on the tip of his tongue, but he breathes in, looks up at the ceiling.

Then, he opens his mouth and speaks.

* * *

He tells them.

Tells them about what happened, what they saw, what Draco did --

And it feels like time’s frozen.

Nobody knows what to do, not really, as they all sit in silence, in horror, in grief, and that’s just it, isn’t it?

How do you mourn someone who isn’t dead but could have been?

Who tried to be? Who _wanted_ to be?

Blaise still doesn’t have any answers.

* * *

When they finally get the nerve to go visit Draco later, Blaise doesn’t know what to do.

(Because what if they hadn’t been fast enough? What if they had been too late?)

It’s so stiflingly quiet, and for once -- Blaise hates the quiet. Draco has never once enjoyed silence, he has always enjoyed things to be loud, has never stopped talking, has always craved sound because things always were too quiet, especially for when Draco had had to go back to the Manor during Hogwarts summers.

Pansy puts a hand on his shoulder, taking him out of his memories, and at the foot of the bed -- Daphne has frustrated tears welling up in her eyes as Millie holds Greg, him trembling in her arms.

Theo is on Draco’s other side, a mask of calm if not for the way he’s gripping the metal bedframe unflinchingly. Everyone else is silent, and Blaise is once more grateful for the fact that Potter stands away from it all, lets the Slytherins stand by Draco without interruption.

When Madame Pomfrey walks in, she’s holding files in her hands, and her face is grim.

“I have the results for his diagnostics,” she is abnormally soft, not berating them for standing too close to her patient.

“Will he be --” Pansy starts, but Madame Pomfrey puts a hand up to signal she’s not finished talking.

“He will be fine,” she answers anyways, but continues, “We had to detox his body -- he had drank nearly five vials of Draught of Peace along with an unknown sleeping potion. The effects of both potions have worn off, but he still needs to recover from the duress he had just put himself under.”

“And the cuts?” Blaise finally speaks, looking down, a swirl in his gut as he remembers the gravity of what existed under the expansion of white bandages that cover every inch of Draco’s arms.

“There was magical residue from the cuts suggesting he used multiple Diffindos to do the damage.” Madame Pomfrey explains, before hesitating on her second statement. “Mr. Malfoy … we assume he was trying to do damage to the Dark Mark. The majority of the cuts were clustered in that area, but he also possessed two long lacerations vertical from his wrist to the end of the mark.” She swallows harshly, the lines of her face sad and tight, “it’s clear that the cuts were meant to have been fatal.”

And for the second time in two days, their world shatters once more under the confirmation of the reality.

(How did things get so fucked up?)

Blaise tenses, the memories sparking back up again, shutting his eyes as if to try and hide from the images but they’re imprinted in the back of his retinas, they’re internal -- he can’t hide from these memories, not even if he wants to.

And he does, want to.

(Sometimes we don’t always get what we want.

Sometimes that’s a bad thing.)

Blaise opens his eyes, looks to see Pansy’s hand on Draco’s knees, her gaze soft. The cuts had been intentional, purposeful, and if they hadn’t made it…

(And sometimes? It’s a good thing.)

(A very good thing.)

* * *

When Blaise sleeps that night, he opens his eyes to see he's standing in the dorm, and he recognises the situation near instantly.

Draco is smiling, looking out the door. When the blonde looks back at him, his features are soft and teasing. He doesn’t need a Tempus charm to know what memory he’s been lost in this time.

(Just hours before Draco tried to --)

“So when are you going to tell him?” Draco raises an eyebrow, scrunching his nose, messing with the notebook in his hand.

“Tell who what?” Blaise plays along, sits at the edge of Draco’s bed.

It’s clear that that answer is displeasing -- precisely why he said it, anyways -- to Draco who frowns and sits up, resting his crossed arms over his propped up knees.

“Don’t be an idiot,” he reaches over to flick Blaise’s forehead, but he dodges easily.

Finally, giving a proper answer, he shrugs, “Don’t know,” as he's reaching over to flick Draco’s knee but misses. Either way, he provokes, “When are you going to tell _him_?”

Draco’s features are still soft, but there’s a tinge of exasperation -- as if they’ve had this conversation a million times (and they have).

“Tell who what?” is the quick parry, and Blaise has to resist the urge to snort when Draco uses his own words to retaliate against him.

“Fine. But you _do_ know --”

“No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do -- ”

“Don't start.”

“Start what?”

“What would you say to me if it were your last day?”

Draco’s question causes him to pause.

(In the moment, he hadn’t thought much of it. Draco has always had a knack for saying the oddest things at the oddest times for the oddest reasons.)

 _I would say, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry_ \--

The memory goes as it does.

“I would say, you finally nagged me to my grave,” Blaise teases, before laughing when Draco finally lets the exasperation flood his expression. Blaise chuckles, dodging a pale leg kicking at him.

“I’m kidding!” He snorts, before poking the ankle near him. “You know what I would say.”

_I would say, fuck the whole Zabini clan, you’re my real family. I would say, you’re my brother, and even if you’re overly dramatic and overly defensive sometimes, that you’re my brother, and I love you, and I’m sorry._

Draco cracks a genuine smile at that. He looks down, plays with the notebook that he’s placed next to him before looking back up.

A mischievous glint in his eyes as he points out, again, “What would you say to him?”

Blaise sighs playfully, “This again?”

“You deserve to be happy, _Blaise-ikins_.” The tone is teasing and the pet name is absolute rubbish -- he rolls his eyes at it -- but he knows that Draco isn’t lying in his words: and it makes the curve of Blaise’s lips turn up slightly.

Blaise pats Draco’s knee before standing up, “ _yeah_ , well, this happy guy is going to go to the party that we’re having right now to escape any more of this talk. Anyways, are you sure you don’t want to go to the party tonight? It’s game night, I’m sure Granger has thought up a fine game to play tonight.”

(In the moment, he hadn’t realised the way Draco’s eyes had lost some of its shine.)

Draco shakes his head, putting his notebook underneath one of the plethora of pillows on his bed, fluffing one of the others.

“Go on ahead, I’m rather tired,” he shrugs, and Blaise suddenly sees how the lack of Draco’s sleep has been getting to him.

(Which should have been odd because all Draco wanted to do was sleep and stay in bed lately.)

Either way, Blaise doesn’t have the heart to force him, so he nods, doing a tiny salute before slowly walking out the door, “Grab me if you need anything, yeah?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Draco waves dismissively, “now go have fun and stay safe.”

“ _Alright_ , mom.” Blaise jokes, but flinches naturally when Draco threatens to throw a giant pillow at him.

Draco smiles, pleased, though when Blaise finally walks near the door, but blonde brows furrow when he stops in the doorway.

“You deserve to be happy, too.”

The sincerity makes Draco visibly freeze, before smiling, tentatively this time. It’s the last thing Blaise sees before he closes the door behind him.

( _You know that, right? Draco?_ )

* * *

Blaise wakes up, feeling even more nauseous than he had the previous night.

He hears banging on the door and Potter’s groggy, stuttered “H-Hey!” when he hears Neville yawn himself awake.

A click of a familiar pair of shoes is what alarms Blaise to startle faster than he wants to, rubbing his eyes to see Pansy, hair pulled into a steady ponytail, her face grim.

Before he can put a word in edgewise, she speaks.

“Draco’s awake.”

 _Shit_.


End file.
